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When Price appears a quarter mile away in the scope, he’s bloody sauntering across the field, so Ghost knows the area is clear.
He’s started referring to himself as Ghost even in his thoughts as of late.
“Took you long enough,” Ghost says into the comms. He pushes himself off his stomach in the too-long summer grass, sits up on his knees and rolls his neck out. He’s been lying in wait for at least an hour for Price to clear the farm that has a barn they’re supposed to get a supplies drop at.
Price doesn’t respond, but he waves him over and heads to the barn. Ghost jumps to his feet and stows his rifle.
Sometimes when he’s alone, he’s still Simon. But he’s rarely alone nowadays. Price recruited him into his unit—surely against his better judgement—and now he’s got a constant…companion.
Which, as much as he hates to admit it, is a good thing. Most of the time.
Ghost walks the quarter mile to the barn Price disappeared into. He keeps watch, but for the most part he trusts that Price cleared the area. When he gets into the barn and closes the massive double doors behind him, Price is sitting on a bale of hay and trying, but mostly failing, to get into contact with Laswell on comms. He rolls his eyes and gestures to the malfunctioning walkie-talkie when Ghost approaches him.
Then, Price gives up on the radio and starts re-organizing his pack, and Ghost sits on the opposite side of the barn and starts calibrating his scope. They don’t need to talk. That’s something they have in common.
Price also has the same streak of cruelty as Ghost, though he hides it better. Ghost’s heard his poison tongue and knows the grudges he holds and has borne witness to violence, unnecessary violence, more times over than Price would probably like him to remember.
Truthfully, Ghost’s been thinking about what they have in common for a while now. He’s been trying to parse out the reasons why Price is Captain Price and Ghost is still Sergeant Riley.
Price has more confidence running a room. He exercises tighter control. People look up to him, not because of fear or even just out of respect, but because they are compelled to. These are things Ghost knows he can get better at…with time. And under the right mentor.
Though, arguably, part of the reason Ghost hasn’t been up for promotion is because Price is the only one he spends any substantial time with, so he’s the only one who could recommend him. He’s sure Price revels in having such tight control over his personal recruit.
Admittedly, they’re also both a little possessive.
When Price finishes sorting his gear, he stands up and stretches out his hamstrings. He reaches back and pulls at his ankle, one leg at a time, breathing slow, self-satisfied and controlled and confident looking like a fuckin’ dork father stretching after a morning jog. His face is shiny with sweat from walking around in the late-summer heat for hours in all that gear, his hair pushed back, that bucket hat abandoned for once.
He catches Ghost looking at him, and he smiles—confidently, controlled—but looks away before it reaches his eyes.
“Gonna see a man about a horse,” Price says, still looking away. Ghost grunts and turns his attention back to his already-calibrated scope, and Price disappears into the back of the barn.
The only thing Price brings less confidence and control to than Ghost, in fact, is his sexuality.
Because Ghost’s pretty fucking well depersonalized—he gave up his name—but at least he knows he likes to fuck men. And not typical faggots, not small and feminine and cloying men, but men who look like him. Men who look like the guys in their squadron.
Men who look like Price, frankly.
But with Price, it’s all about finding some birds to hook up with on leave. It’s about settling down with a missus someday.
Sometimes he’s still talking about this nonexistent missus, these imaginary birds, when Ghost is throating his fucking dick. But he keeps coming back. He keeps choosing Ghost for dual missions. He keeps fucking him and even though Ghost has a strong preference to top, he doesn’t mind if it’s Price.
Doesn’t mind it. Enjoys it, even. But sometimes thinks the whole arrangement is a little too convenient for Price to give up.
“Laswell said it won’t be till morning,” Price says, walking back up to his haybale. Because of course he took a business call while taking a piss. “Supply chain is backed up and somehow getting us sorted is low on the priority list.” He does that thing with his voice where he’s pretending to be okay with the failures of others, clearly making a mental tally of who to hold to task later, and it kind of makes Ghost chub up in his cargos.
“Can we move on, then?” Ghost asks. Price doesn’t usually wait around for roadblocks, and Ghost prefers to keep moving because it means a lot less thinking about the lack of promotion and the fact that Price is a serious closet case and how that might keep Ghost from ever getting what he wants.
…If Ghost even knows what he wants. Because while this arrangement sometimes makes him feel like a feral and restless caged dog, other times it makes him feel safe and wanted like one.
“Not this time.” Price unbuckles his tac vest, rolls his shoulders, and starts pulling off the heaviest of his gear. He looks like he’s settling in for a long one, which is a novel sight. “Low on MREs and even lower on rounds. If we wait for the next one, we’ll be stranded without ammo.”
“Lovely.” Ghost heaves a hard breath and, reluctantly, follows his Captain’s suit. Guess they’re staying the night in a bloody barn in the bloody middle of nowhere. But, Ghost supposes, he’s spent far worse nights.
Ghost finishes taking off his outer gear. He leaves on his cargos and hooded sweatshirt in case their long night doesn’t end up being so long, and he rolls out his sleeping bag right away for the same reason.
“Calling it a night already?” Price asks. He’s kept his street clothes on too, but he’s sitting on the haybale fussing with his gear again.
“Might as well,” Ghost says. “If we have the time. Haven’t slept proper in a few weeks.”
“Sensible,” Price says. “Thought you might want to debrief first.” He nods at his pack, and Ghost knows that what he means is he thought Ghost might want to share his flask of whiskey.
And what that means…is something different altogether.
Another commonality they share is that Price, like Ghost, never hesitates to get to the point. He doesn’t dance around things.
Except for the fact that they’re fucking. That’s the one thing Price does the bloody conga around.
It’s always tempting to call him out on this, or at least withhold enough to force him to say it out loud. To make their arrangement less convenient for Price. But Ghost never does.
“Don’t have to twist my arm,” Ghost says. He finishes smoothing out his sleeping bag, puts a knife and his rifle on the haybale next to it, and sits on the ground. Kind of makes a show of settling in for the evening. At the very least, he’ll make Price come to him physically.
Price doesn’t bite right away, though. Of course not. He takes care of his own space: rolls out his bag, reorganizes his pack, sets out his own in case of emergency weapons. They’ll take turns sleeping, but they’re used to not having that luxury. Ghost just sits, and watches, and waits. Waits for Price to unearth the whiskey, waits for them to share it until Price is loose enough to forget about the birds and the future missus and waits for him to remember that he really, inexplicably seems to like watching Ghost—who is neither bird nor missus like—jerk him off.
Then, Ghost hears the barn door creak. For half a second, he thinks the supplies drop is early.
He’s on his feet before the second is over, and the barn doors slide open wide enough for a man with a rifle to enter. Like Ghost has been trained, like he’s been programmed, he grabs and aims his own rifle and shields his Captain.
The man shoots first, wildly, before Ghost can even get a read on him. Ghost takes a bullet to the thigh, it feels like. It burns like hell, and he curses and shoots the guy in the skull. His head explodes like a fucking melon from a rifle shot that close range, gratuitously violent, the satisfying wet shatter of skull and brain matter echoing in the barn.
Then nothing happens. Because they’re both still and silent, expecting more intruders. Price searched over the whole goddamn farmland for miles and the fuckers still found them.
Ghost’s thigh burns more. He doesn’t look down to see how badly he’s hurt.
“Think that was just some unlucky bastard,” Price says, finally breaking the silence behind him.
“A civilian?” Ghost doesn’t drop his rifle, but he strides up to the body. The man’s wearing dark clothes, but nothing tactical. Just jeans and a flannel over a sweater. A hat sodden with blood and brain. “Why’d he shoot, then?”
“Could be his barn,” Price says. “Some paranoid fucker. Don’t know, really.”
Price is next to him suddenly, and he whistles, long and low; appreciating the wanton violence as much as Ghost is.
“Can’t blame him for shooting on sight, though,” Price says, wryly, and nudges Ghost’s shoulder with his own. “Big scary bastard like you creeping around his barn.”
Ghost scoffs. Good, he thinks. Unlike Price, he isn’t deceptively welcoming. He isn’t trying to avoid conflict. Whether or not the guy had come in hot like that, they would have had to deal with him. They’re in enemy territory—civilians can’t be trusted here.
“Shame he’s a piss poor shot,” Ghost says. He grabs the dead man’s arms, and Price grabs his ankles, and they drag him into the corner of the barn.
“Didn’t get you too bad, at least,” Price says. Ghost finally looks at his thigh. It’s more of a deep graze than anything, but it still burns like something lodged into his skin. Probably some stray debris. “Sit down. I’ll check the perimeter.”
Price exits the barn with his rifle, and Ghost doesn’t sit down right away. He stares at his weeping wound, at the guy hemorrhaging life in the corner, and feels less like a dog safely locked in a cage and more like one who needs to escape an abusive owner. He’d been too quick to relax. Too quick to trust Price’s judgment.
He’s being dramatic, sure. But timing is everything.
“All clear,” Price says, walking back into the barn after a few minutes. This time, he closes the double doors and secures them with a rake through the handles.
“Not sure I trust you, now,” Ghost says. Because Price doesn’t look nearly apologetic enough for missing wherever that guy had been after clearing the farm. He lowers onto a hay bale with a grunt.
“Gonna have to try, son.” Price can’t seem to tell that Ghost is actually pissed at him. It was a mistake, but Ghost’s already too tied up in his frustration to let it go easy. “Let me patch you up.”
Price crouches down at his pack, and even though Ghost is pissed, he isn’t going to turn down his Captain tending to his gunshot wound. It’s protocol for one, and also Price fuckin’ better play nurse for him.
While Price looks for his supplies, Ghost pulls his cargos down to his ankles and steps out of them so he’s sitting in his boxer briefs. It’s warm enough in the stuffy barn that it’s a relief. The wound is angry red, blood already dark and clotting on his thigh. Just a scratch, really. He’s fine. But it stings like hell.
“What are you gonna tell the brass?” Ghost asks. Price stands up, med kit in one hand and both his canteen and flask in the other.
“He snuck up on us,” Price says. He takes a swig from the flask, and then hands it to Ghost. “Nothing to tell. You had no choice. They’ll clean it up.”
Ghost chuckles, in spite of himself, and Price kneels between his legs, even though the wound is closer to the outside of his thigh.
Ghost takes a swig of his own from the flask and opens his legs a little more. And then he takes another swig.
Price rinses Ghost’s wound with the water from his canteen, flushing blood and grime down his thigh. It doesn’t look too bad underneath the mess, and Ghost knows it won’t take long for Price to patch him up. It’s not the first time they’ve been in this situation: Ghost injured, Price using his med kit on him. Rarely is it the other way around, since Ghost is always covering Price and Price is apparently a lucky bastard.
It is the first time, however, that the wound is this close to Ghost’s dick.
Ghost takes another drink off the flask.
“Easy,” Price says, rubbing his hands with disinfectant. “Got the rest of the night ahead of us.” He smears Neosporin onto Ghost’s wound without warning, and Ghost inhales sharply through his teeth, and Price smirks about it. He takes the flask back from Ghost and tilts it back, and Ghost wonders if Price packed more than one.
“This all you brought?” Ghost asks, out loud, and grabs it back in case it is.
“Course not.” Price sizes out a bandage for Ghost’s thigh, rips it off the roll with his teeth. “Nothing else to do tonight.”
Ghost would like to say he and Price only drink on missions when the unforeseen happens. When they’re stuck overnight with nothing else to do.
It’s patently untrue, but he’d like to say it.
Knowing he’s not depleting Price’s stash, Ghost finishes off the flask. Price gives him a pointed look and wraps his thigh tight with the bandage, secures a soft cotton pad over the wound underneath it, and ties it off.
“How’s that feel?” Price asks, and slaps his thigh.
“Feels like you got me shot in the leg.”
Price suppresses a laugh, and so does Ghost. Yeah, he was being dramatic. Price made a mistake, and that’s fine. But he’d still like to take advantage of it.
So when Price tries to grab his flask back again, Ghost holds it away, just enough, so that Price is left reaching for it.
“Finished this one,” Ghost says. Price doesn’t pull back at first. He’s on his knees, tucked between Ghost’s legs, and leaned up against his uninjured thigh. He smells like fresh sweat and disinfectant and whiskey.
Ghost is hard in his boxer briefs, and not hiding it very well.
“I’ll get another.” Price grunts and shifts to stand up.
Ghost grabs his shoulder with his free hand to stop him.
“Might as well help me with this, too,” Ghost says, and lifts his hips to draw Price’s attention to his erection. As if he hasn’t noticed it yet. “While you’re down there.”
Price stills. Ghost may have misjudged how easy this would be. But truthfully, he’s not asking Price.
Another thing they don’t have in common, is that where Price feels secure in fulfilling the needs of others, making them dependent on him, flexing that awful saviors complex of his—Ghost feels secure in the taking. He never feels more wanted than when someone is doing something they do not want to do for his benefit.
It makes him a bit of a nasty lover, he’s sure.
Ghost closes his hand tighter over Price’s shoulder, the coiled muscles underneath his shirt and skin flexing like he might resist, might try to stand up anyway. Ghost relishes the idea of a struggle. It would make it all the more satisfying to fight Price into submission first. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be doable. On a normal day, they’re equally strong, but Ghost’s bigger than Price by a good margin, and Price is already in a prime position to be wrestled down.
Unfortunately, Price settles back onto his knees between Ghost’s legs and spreads his palms over the inside of Ghost’s thighs.
“Alright then, Simon,” he says. Confidently, but his eyes don’t meet Ghost’s. Probably because that would make this too gay for him. “If it’ll make you feel better.”
Ghost doesn’t let the condescension in Price’s voice ruffle him. He’s won something here. No need to muff it up by making it an argument.
“…I’d say you owe me, too,” Ghost says, anyway, argumentatively. Maybe because he slugged that whiskey a little too fast, and maybe because if they aren’t going to physically fight about it, he doesn’t want Price to go easy. Price is always justifying and persuading and talking enough that anything he does comes across as a calculated choice, and Ghost equal parts admires it and thinks it’s all fucking bullshit. “Saved your life, again.”
Price’s hands freeze where they’re cupped around the insides of Ghost’s thighs. Ghost might be flexing them on instinct. He drags his eyes up from the heavy bulge in Ghost’s boxers. It’s too gay to make eye contact when pleasantly agreeing to suck off your mate, but not too gay if there’s a threat of force.
“That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it, Simon?” Price tilts his head a bit, sticks his tongue into his cheek like he’s considering him. Maybe like a disappointed father would. “That’s why I keep you around.” He hooks his fingers under Ghost’s boxers, finally, and tugs them down off his hips. It forces Ghost to shift, to help him get them off and to his knees, and when his painfully hard cock springs free, already leaking at the tip for this, Price’s cool expression breaks into something softer. “That’s my boy.”
And yeah, Ghost knows he’s been steadily molded into Price’s attack dog ever since he was recruited. Whatever potential Price saw in him continues to be realized every time Ghost puts his body in the line of danger for his Captain.
Ghost wants to keep being an argumentative shit just to see what cruelty Price will come up with next, but then Price swipes his lips with his tongue and Ghost’s brain pulses red behind his eyeballs, prioritizing a different, more pressing need.
“Go on then,” Ghost says. “…Sir.”
Price spits on his right palm and slides his grip through Ghost’s messy cockhead, strokes him down to the base and back up. Ghost supposes he’s not surprised he’s starting with a handjob, they usually do, but he was hoping with Price on his knees he’d get the hint.
It’s rare that he gets Price to go down on him. Unless he’s prepping Ghost for getting fucked. And it’s not that Price is a particularly selfish lover, it’s that he seems to be hung up on some of the dynamics around this that make it acceptable for him to justify fucking his sergeant. It’s okay if Price is the one filling Ghost’s holes, is what it seems to come down to.
And again, Ghost doesn’t mind it because it’s Price.
…But he’d certainly prefer to buck whatever rules Price has built up in his head around their arrangement and take bloody charge for once.
Still, it’s a view Ghost doesn’t get often, so for now he settles in, spreads his legs more, and stares at Price below him. His strong hand, all hairy knuckles and gnarled scars, jerking Ghost off deftly. His hair pushed off his sweaty face. That determined, almost disengaged expression, only betrayed by the way he keeps licking his lips as Ghost leaks pre-cum from his pulled back foreskin.
“Would feel a lot better if you blew me, instead,” Ghost says. Because of the whiskey, and the way Price keeps licking his lips. Price pauses, fist wrapped around Ghost’s dick, and Ghost reaches down and thumbs at those wet lips before Price can say anything else.
Price’s mouth curls a bit, like he’s incredulous, or brewing something else to say that’s cruel and disarming. His eyes search Ghost’s face with a thin veneer of control.
He looks annoyed. But he also looks kinda impressed.
Which makes Ghost’s blood run hot for a moment. Because if the only reason he hasn’t been able to fuck Price is because he’s been too loyal to the chain of command, because he’s been too much of a coward to ask for it, to demand it, to control the situation and put Price on his knees, to push his thumb into his hot and waiting mouth—that’s a hell of a lot of lost time.
Ghost twists his wrist and cups under Price’s chin. With the added leverage, he’s able to push his thumb harder against the split of Price’s lips. They’re soft, still wet and cracked a little at the edges. His thumbnail rocks into Price’s teeth, his mouth stubbornly locked tight, until Price’s eyes relax and he opens up for Ghost.
His thumb slips into the warmth of his mouth, depresses his tongue to the floor. Then, like Ghost unlocked some fucking mental puzzle, Price lets go of Ghost’s cock and lets himself be led by the mouth to the newly weeping tip of Ghost’s dick.
Bloody hell.
Ghost clenches his jaw to keep from vocalizing his surprise. He is as controlled as his Captain. He can exude confidence. He has done everything to deserve this.
This being Price shifting forward on his knees, a bend in his lower back that can’t be comfortable—he’s always complaining about how sore it is, but he’s soldiering through it for Ghost now. This being Ghost grabbing the other side of his face, slipping his thumb out of his mouth, and pulling his parted lips down onto the head of Ghost’s cock.
Price slides his hands around Ghost’s hips, thumbs pressing down hard in the divot between his stomach and thighs. He ducks his head to take half of Ghost in his mouth, rolls his eyes up to make contact, and takes him to the root.
“Fucking hell, Price,” Ghost says, out loud, on accident. But it doesn’t come out too surprised. It comes out low and self-assured, imbued with the knowledge that he’s earned this. And Price looks good sinking his mouth onto Ghost’s dick. He has to praise him somehow. Price would praise him if the tables were turned, after all.
When Price pulls up, Ghost’s cock is slick with saliva, like all that spit had been sitting heavy and thick on Price’s tongue, pooling in his jaw right before he throated Ghost. Like his mouth had been watering for it, the slaggy bastard.
Ghost uses his hold on Price’s head to pull him back down onto his cock with both hands, then off, and when Price kind of mutters something about it he quickly draws him back down and keeps him there, nose buried in Ghost’s pubic hair, forehead warm and sweaty against Ghost’s stomach. Price’s grip on his hips doubles in strength, and he gags for a second, the hot, undulating flex of his throat closing so tight on Ghost’s dick he has to bite his tongue to keep from groaning too loud.
Once Price relaxes, once he accepts that Ghost has the upper-hand, Ghost pulls him off his dick and lets go of him.
Price wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He sizes Ghost up the best he can from between his legs—which just looks cute, really—and shakes his head.
“Been thinking about that for a while?” he asks. He looks more amused than impressed, now.
“Keep going, Captain,” Ghost says. Because he’s not going to be baited into conversation when he could have Price’s mouth on his dick instead. He resists the urge to pull Price’s face back down and leaves his hands idly, confidently at his sides on the haybale. If he makes Price blow him, it gives Price too much power in the aftermath. It’s insubordination.
But if he’s patient, if he waits in expectation for his superior officer to serve him by choice, he wins.
Price tongues the inside of his cheek again. He looks a little frustrated. Since Ghost stole most of his whiskey and kept him from getting up for more, he’s probably too sober for this. Probably too sober to be this open about what he wants, what he’s willing to do for Ghost. Which is good, because it makes it all the better if he sucks it up and puts on a show for Ghost anyway.
Then, Price slides his grip from Ghost’s hips to his outer thighs. His right hand cups over where Ghost got shot, and he presses down. It stings, the cotton digging into his wound, but Ghost curls his toes and, once more, doesn’t take the bait. If Price is being this much of a bitch about sucking him off, he’s got him right where he wants him. The thought makes Ghost’s cock drool more pre-cum for Price to inevitably lick up.
Sure enough, Price ducks down and takes Ghost’s cockhead into his mouth. He sweeps his tongue under his foreskin, licks up his pre-cum, and sinks down on him completely. He blows him steadily, eyes lowered, movements strong, Ghost’s dick striking the back of his throat each time he takes him to the base.
His palm applies more pressure on Ghost’s bullet wound, and while Ghost kind of likes the intersection of pain with his pleasure, he likes pushing Price around more. So he interlaces his hand with Price’s and pulls up to see if he can get his Captain to stop trying to hurt him.
“Use your hand too, sir,” Ghost says. And Price goes easy. He nods into throating Ghost’s cock and lets Ghost guide his hand to cup under his balls instead, where Price thumbs at them, rubs the run-off of his saliva into the tightened-up skin like a bloody natural.
Ghost rakes his fingers through Price’s hair, scratches his scalp while he blows him, and Price hums for it. Fucking hell.
Ghost’s lower stomach curls, his balls tighten up further, and he wants to pull out of Price’s mouth without warning. He wants to shoot all over his stubbled face and clump together his eyelashes and watch that tongue gather Ghost’s spend from his pink lips. After, Ghost would claim he needed to rest due to his injury and leave Price to deal with his own erection by himself for once. He’d like to see him try to challenge that, to fruitlessly persuade his way into a blowjob of his own, with Ghost’s cum on his face and tongue. He’d like to be inconvenient.
Fortunately for Price, Ghost would rather take this rare opportunity to get into his Captain’s arse. He’s not going to miss out on a chance to prove he can make him come on his cock.
Ghost pushes his fingers through Price’s hair a final time and uses the heel of his hand to ease his forehead up, to get Price to stop enthusiastically blowing him. Price is a little out of breath, pulse heavy in his throat, skin dusted with pink. His pupils are blown, but he doesn’t make eye contact with Ghost, still. Even though he’s clearly enjoying himself, his hand straying from Ghost’s balls to palm and squeeze the front of his cargos.
“Why don’t you let me take care of you?” Ghost asks, and he’s surprised by how easy Price’s language of persuasion translates from his own brain to his tongue. “You said that’s why I’m here. Doesn’t make sense for you to always do the legwork, sir.”
Even though they both know Ghost is not benevolently offering to split Price’s arse in two for Price’s sake, he revels in the way Price’s frown lines deepen and his eyebrow creases to think of a reason why it’s fine for Price to fuck him but not fine for Ghost to fuck Price.
“You’re the one who’s injured,” Price says.
“So I should get to choose.”
“…Haven’t been the one on the receiving end in some time,” Price says, which is not a no, and comes with a little novel hesitancy from his typically steadfast Captain. Ghost half thinks Price lobbed him a win on purpose, and he stands up before Price can backtrack.
“Bend over this,” Ghost says, gesturing to the haybale. Price has always fucked Ghost from behind, so Ghost’s just returning the favor. “I’ll stretch you out first.”
Price doesn’t say anything. He just obeys, just shifts closer to the haybale on his knees and leans over it on his forearms. Ghost gets on his knees behind him and notes, with some level of smugness, that the barn floor is not the slightest bit comfortable to kneel on, yet Price has been dealing with it without complaint since he got down there to tend to Ghost’s injury.
Ghost yanks Price’s cargos off his hips and down to his knees, and then presses the hard weight of his cock against Price’s arse, just the thin layer of his briefs between them.
The first time Price fucked him, he entered him without prep. If anything, Ghost is more benevolent than Price. If anything, Ghost is a better leader here, bereft of Price’s shame and justifications. He could be an arsehole about it and he’s pretty sure Price would pridefully take it without complaint—or he could prove that he’s better at this than his Captain.
Ghost pulls Price’s briefs down to his knees and spits on his fingers. Price is too quiet when Ghost spreads his arse with his hands to see what he’s working with. He rubs his hole with spit, hooks his thumb into it, and spits again, inside him, a long trail that stretches from Ghost’s mouth to his rim. He works more saliva into his hole and massages his rim until his thumb can slip in and out easy. And Price grunts a little, shifts on his forearms, but barely reacts otherwise.
He’s being a right bastard, really.
So Ghost spreads his thighs on the ground to duck down, holds Price’s arsecheeks open, and buries his tongue inside him.
“Fucking hell, Simon—”
Price’s repressed grunting finally breaks on a real, throaty groan, and he jerks his hips back to meet Ghost’s mouth. Ghost growls back and holds him still, licks into him, pushes spit from his over-worked salivary glands down his tongue and into Price’s arsehole.
Notably, Price has never done this to Ghost.
Which is an advantage that makes Ghost a little cocksure. In control and confident like his Captain. He fucks him on his tongue until he finds the nerves of his prostate, and Price groans low in his throat for each thrust even though his cock hasn’t been touched once. Like the proper fucking fag he is.
Ghost gets tired of hearing Price enjoy himself and pulls off, leaving his hole messy with saliva. He sits up tall on his knees and slots the length of his cock against the cleft in Price’s arse, fucks between his cheeks, teases his head at the barely opened rim.
“How long’s it been?” Ghost asks. He spits again on the head of his cock to ease the slide. He needs to make an unmistakable mess of Price.
“Few years,” Price says, in a conversational voice that doesn’t sound like Ghost is about to open his arse up on his cock. “On leave before I got promoted.”
Ghost’s known Price for less than a few years. He’s not sure if it bothers him that other guys have seen him like this, or if he’s glad Price hasn’t been fucked since he met Ghost. His possessive streak pleads the former, and the logical part of his brain that knows this isn’t going to be a routine makes him competitive. He’s gonna fuck Price well enough to make it stick.
“Alright, son,” Price says, and Ghost realizes he’s just been staring at the length of his cock against Price’s lower back, at how far it promises to reach inside him. “Quit teasin’ and get on with it.”
“Begging me, now?” Ghost asks, with a chuckle that he hears Price return because he can’t help it. But he follows his Captain’s order, shifts back, and presses his cockhead inside him.
Price tightens up right away with a hissed inhale, his lack of practice at taking dick ringing true. Ghost wants to make fun of him for it, but instead he makes a sort of instinctive sound of reassurance he didn’t know existed in his vocal range and rubs the small of Price’s back until he unclenches around him.
Ghost palms over Price’s strong hips and presses forward. He buries his cock inside Price in a slow, steady drive. Slow enough that Price doesn’t stop him, and steady enough that he can’t think to stop him until he’s bottomed out fully against his arse.
“Bloody hell,” Price says, under his breath. His ears are red. Ghost bets his neck is too, kinda wants to see it, but he didn’t think to get more clothes off before fucking him. “Just…give me a second.”
Ghost doesn’t pull out, but he also can’t bear to be still for Price’s benefit. He pushes Price’s shirt up his spine to see more of his sturdy, hairy body, and rocks his hips idly while he’s sunk to the hilt, grinds them so that Price feels it, so that he knows Ghost is balls-deep inside him, so that he can’t forget for a second how full he is with Ghost’s cock.
“Christ, Simon—"
Price drops one side of his face to the haybale, apparently too affected to stay up on his forearms, and groans severely through his teeth. Ghost doesn’t think he’s ever been so affected by being fucked, himself. Not that Price wasn’t a right professional, but it’s just never been Ghost’s preference.
He’s starting to think that Price’s preferences are more compatible with his than he originally thought, if not for his fucking pride and the bloody denial and all that precious control.
So Ghost doesn’t wait for Price’s go-ahead. He’s the one in control, here. He knows exactly what Price needs from him.
Ghost squeezes Price’s hips under his hands, pulls out without warning, and fucks him full again.
Price tucks his forearm under his face, muffles a dull groan into crook of his elbow, and keeps it there. Ghost wants to pull it away, wants to grab him by the scruff of his neck and force him to vocalize everything, force him to be an embarrassment in Ghost’s hands.
But he resists. He focuses on fucking Price in strong, driving thrusts, on fucking him deep, on fucking him in time with his pathetic, suppressed noises. It’s more of a victory that Price is so affected he can’t share himself with Ghost. It’s even better if he is being torn apart mentally because of this, actually.
“Always talking about birds you’d like to fuck,” Ghost says, suddenly. And he can’t blame the whiskey on the unadulterated accusatory filth breaking the connection from his hindbrain to his mouth; he sobered up a while ago. “Fucking bollocks. This is what you like…sir. You’re a bloody fag.”
He knows Price won’t agree out loud, but he also doesn’t want to hear him disagree. He doesn’t want to give him a chance to cook up something disarming and to make this moment any less than it should be. So Ghost leans over the strong plane of his back, presses him into the haybale until he can feel his own heartbeat against Price’s spine. He tucks his face into Price’s neck and digs one hand between the crook of Price’s elbow to cover his mouth for him. If anything, he’s just helping Price stay quiet like the coward he is.
From the new position, with all that leverage, he fucks him brutally. Rams his hips forward, lands every thrust so hard and so deep that Price’s guts get in the way. Price grunts and groans into his palm, sinks his teeth into the flesh of Ghost’s fingers, and Ghost growls more filth into his ear unburdened. Everything he’s wanted to say, about how good Price feels and how he’s a fag like him and he should just fucking get over it and stop jerking him around.
He thinks he says some of that, at least. He tries to say that through the hot rush of blood in his ears and the knotted pleasure in his groin, but there is a contradictory loss of control in the taking of control.
Then, Price bites down harder on his hand, his fists curl into the haybale. He goes bow-tight, painfully stiff all over—and then boneless underneath Ghost.
Ghost slows, and he shoves his free hand underneath Price. His cock is still hard, trapped against the scratchy hay, but it’s warm and wet where he’s come. Ruining their fun too soon, really, but Ghost is glad he forced a hands-free orgasm out of Price without even trying. Fucking birds, as fucking if.
“Didn’t even need me to jerk you off,” Ghost says. His voice comes out gruffer, but there’s less of an edge to it, even as he continues, “See, you love this.”
Price stops biting his hand, and Ghost kind of regrets having silenced him through his orgasm. Kind of wishes he’d been able to hear what he sounds like when someone rails his prostate so good he can’t stay controlled. So he pulls his hand away to wrap both tight around Price’s hips again and picks up the pace to chase his own orgasm.
“That what this is all about?” Price asks. He sounds pained, over-stimulated probably. “Whether or not I love this?”
…Ghost shouldn’t have pulled his hand away.
Ghost leans over Price again, tucks his face into the back of his neck, and pretends he didn’t hear him. He fucks him, not as brutally as before, but steady, and listens to every choked-down sound that builds in Price’s throat.
“That’s—ah—alright, Simon,” Price says, after a moment. Like he’s giving Ghost permission to not engage. Like he knows all too well what Ghost is thinking. “Take what you need, son.”
Ghost growls and cups his hand over Price’s mouth again, even though the damage is done. Price’s neck smells like sweat and Ghost’s blood and the long-off remnants of his cologne, the kind Ghost remembers from his childhood, distantly. He’s annoyed that Price did the thing where he talked his way into making everything seem justified, like this was all his idea, like Ghost is just his loyal dog.
But he’s still the one fucking Price so good it made him come untouched, and he’s still about to empty his balls into his Captain. He’s still in control.
Ghost’s hips stutter, and then he rams them as deep and close as possible to come inside Price with a serrated groan, still huffing the back of his neck. Taking what he needs.
He pulls his hand away from Price’s mouth, and before Price can say anything else, he reaches under him and jerks his cock. Still pinning him to the haybale, his whole-body weight pressed down on him in the aftermath of his own orgasm, Ghost strokes Price until he, with nowhere to suppress his voice, comes for a second time with Simon’s name on his lips.
Only once Price is done weakly bucking his hips into Ghost’s hand does Ghost ease up off him.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of the birds, Simon,” Price says, with a low chuckle. He turns over on the haybale and his hairy stomach is flushed pink and scratched-up from being railed against it.
“Fuck off,” Ghost says, but looking at tangible proof of all the discomfort Price went through for him makes him chuckle, too. He supposes it’s not impossible that Price likes fucking him and birds, even if Ghost doesn’t.
Thankfully, Price doesn’t grill him on anything else he may have or may have not said while fucking him. They clean up, put on their clothes, and Price redresses Ghost’s half-destroyed bandage on his bullet wound, all in silence. Even after all that, they don’t need to talk.
The supplies drop comes the next day, and they finish the mission without further incident. When they get back, Price tells the brass all about how Ghost saved his life on this one. Makes a big deal about how he shows true leadership potential.
And the next time Ghost manages to fuck Price, it’s after he’s been promoted to Lieutenant.